It is not happiness you cannot live without
by Be3
Summary: Random. AU SIGN and FINA. Unbetaed. Pending character death. Mary Watson's narrative on a chance acquaintance that would turn her and her husband's world upside down - a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


It is not happiness you cannot live without

Warning: pending character death

(Very) AU SIGN & FINA&pretty much everything. Hopefully understandable. There was a challenge at Watson's woes lj comm., but I couldn't bring myself to meet its requirements, namely Watson-centeredness... I don't intend to continue the thing, so whoever feels inspired is free to the plot-bunny, just PM me.

The morning was one of my better ones.

I felt almost as good as in the beginning of our journey, when John over-played his seasickness to amuse me. Incidentally, he convinced everybody else aboard that we were two Asiatic savages with too much money and too few manners, about to discover the white man's world for the first time in our unenlightened lives. It was of no consequence; I seldom went out anyway, and words couldn't hurt me... We survived the passage, and began our slow travel across Europe, mindful of my worsening condition.

However, in this rustic hotel I suddenly felt myself healthier, and we decided to stay for a little while. After a week, we stopped paying attention to the idyllic weather and bland dishes. All was Christmassy, quiet, and fabulous. We sent Joseph post-cards and photos, receiving in turn his heartfelt wishes to meet us both during his break from school.

An exemplary couple, truly.

Still, I knew (and John knew I knew) it would be a miracle for me to live for so long as to embrace our son. Yet every morning I woke up in no worse state than the day before, and a wild hope shimmered in his eyes. He became a spendthrift; everything I wanted, I got; only the habits of days past, ingrained too deeply in his mind to be so easily erased by our recent wealth, checked his hand when I jokingly suggested he buy me a palanquin.

John Watson was happy and hopeful, like all those years ago, when we plighted our troth.

And it was his happiness that I couldn't force myself to look upon, this short-lived self-deluding pretence. After all, he was bringing me to England to say farewell to Joseph and some other long-standing acquaintances before consumption sucked out my last breath.

I hated Switzerland. I hated being estranged from my husband in what could possibly be my last days on earth, away from both the land of my ancestors and the land where I'd grown up, and I hated myself for being so weak in every sense of the word.

Life went on, though, and there came a morning when a strange man, all a-twitch with nervousness, and as suspicious of foreign food as only vacationing British can be, turned up on the hotel's doorstep.

His name was a familiar one, although it took me some time to fully recognize; Sherlock Holmes, a sleuth from London who'd helped Mrs. Forrester. I've heard legends of his skill, though nothing definite. According to Cecil, he was a hermit and a helper of people. I wanted to talk to him, since he appeared the only other man of our age present, and not a local, at that.

A life spent in the East makes one a bit irreverent of the dominion's customs, and I risked his rebuttal by approaching him myself the next day. John was still abed, and I found the detective sitting on the low porch. He was smoking a pipe and scrutinizing the landscape.

'Mr. Holmes?' I inquired timidly, for even despite his obvious weariness and shabbiness he commanded instant respect.

'A dying woman,' he sighed, and glowered at the baby-blue groves further afield. 'Preposterous.'

I could not believe my ears.

'Wh- what?'

'Are you, or are you not here to assassinate me?'

'I do not - how could you say -'

'And you do not deny it.' He made an inviting half-wave with his hands, insulting me to no end.

Insulting, and, inexplicably, disappointing.

I slapped him.

I honest to God _slapped_ him.

And he _laughed_.

'That was some definite answer. Do not be offended, my dear lady; do have a seat.'

I sat down, not sure if I wanted to speak to him after all.

'Mr. Sherlock Holmes,' he touched his hat formally, smiling ruefully for a moment.

'Mrs. Mary Watson.'

He disposed of his pipe and turned to me with a question as odd as everything I'd come to expect of him.

'Forgive my forwardness; I do not believe I have much time. I have observed you and your husband for some days. Are you happy, Mrs. Watson?'

I am not one for sharing confidences, but he asked with a child-like, pure curiosity I found strangely compelling.

'I don't know, Mr. Holmes,' I replied at length. 'I am - content with my lot.'

'Are you, now? Were you brought up as an Englishwoman -'

'I _was_.'

If such manners were common that side of the Channel, Joseph would be better off home-educated.

'I meant no offence.' It was obvious he didn't care either way. 'What if you had lived there for all your life? Wouldn't you be more 'content'?'

'I was rather young when we married.' I squared my shoulders against the blush creeping on my cheeks. 'It doesn't seem probable that we could meet if we lived so far apart.'

He shrugged. 'Nevertheless, I've seen less probable things and learned to not reject them beforehand.'

'Like me assassinating you.'

A detective, I remembered. Everybody must be out for his blood.

'Oh, madam, it was a compliment.'

'Oh, indeed. In that case, thank you for your high opinion of my morals, Mr. Holmes.'

He harrumphed.

'Are you bored?'

'Are you?' I blurted out and covered my mouth. He, however, misread the gesture or simply used it like a convenient way to end a conversation he had never wanted to participate in.

'It is windy today! Come, Mrs. Watson; you shouldn't be out.'

I could have pointed out that the air was as still as can be, but he took my elbow and pushed me towards the door, staying a step behind and stealing glances over his shoulder.

'Mary! Here you are. How was your morning, darling?'

John rushed out of the swinging door, sending my escort a searching glare. I took his hand and squeezed it in greeting.

'Perfect. I was just waiting for you to get up, sleepy-head -'

A low 'twang!' rang out behind me, and suddenly my other hand was being tugged down by a heavy weight; only my honed reflexes of a nurse saved Mr. Holmes from falling headfirst into the wall.

'Inside!' barked John. He caught the unresponsive body and squinted against the sun of India, which had never shone here; the sniper, if sniper this were, hid somewhere in the hills.

As I fled before them, used to obeying the tone, I couldn't help but notice that Switzerland had never felt so much like home.

John took care of Mr. Holmes - the wound was a superficial one, he regained consciousness fairly soon and even was fleetingly embarrassed for losing it in the first place, earning himself a lecture on shaken nerves and taking it easy.

And when he told us of his evil genius of an enemy, and John's courage demanded he interfere - a lone flash in his eyes I saw and understood, and I demanded I was treated like a wife of an officer that I am, and we fled the hotel together, and in the ensuing madness that will likely see me to my early grave...

Switzerland was _home_.

And honour was upon us.


End file.
